Now this Saunders was human, and could not be eight years with this young gentleman and not take some little interest in him. He was flunky, and took a great interest in him, as stepping-stone to his own greatness. So when he saw him turning pale and thin, and reading one letter fifty times, he speculated and inquired what was the matter. He brought the intellect of Mr. Saunders to bear on the question at the following angle: “Now, if I was a young lord with 20,000 pounds a year, and all the world at my feet, what would make me in this way? Why, the liver! Nothing else. “And that is what is wrong with him, you may depend.” This conclusion arrived at, Mr. Saunders coolly wrote his convictions to Dr. Aberford, and desired that gentleman's immediate attention to the case. An hour or two later, he glided into his lord's room, not without some secret trepidation, no trace of which appeared on his face. He pulled a long histrionic countenance. “My lord,” said he, in soft, melancholy tones, “your lordship's melancholy state of health gives me great anxiety; and, with many apologies to your lordship, the doctor is sent for, my lord.” “Why, Saunders, you are mad; there is nothing the matter with me.” “I beg your lordship's pardon, your lordship is very ill, and Dr. Aberford sent for.” “You may go, Saunders.” “Yes, my lord. I couldn't help it; I've outstepped my duty, my lord, but I could not stand quiet and see your lordship dying by inches.” Here Mr. S. put a cambric handkerchief artistically to his eyes, and glided out, having disarmed censure. Lord Ipsden fell into a reverie. “Is my mind or my body disordered? Dr. Aberford!--absurd!--Saunders is getting too pragmatical. The doctor shall prescribe for him instead of me; by Jove, that would serve him right.” And my lord faintly chuckled. “No! this is what I am ill of”--and he read the fatal note again. “I do nothing!--cruel, unjust,” sighed he. “I could have done, would have done, anything to please her. Do nothing! nobody does anything now--things don't come in your way to be done as they used centuries ago, or we should do them just the same; it is their fault, not ours,” argued his lordship, somewhat confusedly; then, leaning his brow upon the sofa, he wished to die. For, at that dark moment life seemed to this fortunate man an aching void; a weary, stale, flat, unprofitable tale; a faded flower; a ball-room after daylight has crept in, and music, motion and beauty are fled away. “Dr. Aberford, my lord.” This announcement, made by Mr. Saunders, checked his lordship's reverie. “Insults everybody, does he not, Saunders?” “Yes, my lord,” said Saunders, monotonously. “Perhaps he will me; that might amuse me,” said the other. A moment later the doctor bowled into the apartment, tugging at his gloves, as he ran. The contrast between him and our poor rich friend is almost beyond human language.